


Worthy Company

by Saetha



Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [19]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: (or well. some dubious comfort perhaps), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, FebuWhump2021, Flint is an even bigger ass, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Insomnia, Insults, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, References to Depression, Vane is an ass, no beta we die like Miranda Hamilton :(, so Vane actually ends up being...the nice one?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29557680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: “I could fuck you,” Vane offers. “Or punch you until you’re knocked out. If you prefer.”Flint snorts.“The rum will do for now. Although I hope you’ve brought more than one bottle.” Vane laughs at that and points to the desk.*Flint is in a terrible mood, a few months after the events in Charleston. He can't sleep. Charles opts to join him, with a drink and a few choice words.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Charles Vane
Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138178
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Worthy Company

**Author's Note:**

> Of course there was going to be FlintVane this month (and, spoiler - it won't be the last time). This one is set at some point between Seasons 2 and 3, so Flint is at the worst possible place mentally. I can't believe Vane is actually the nicer of the two in here. Warning for a brief moment of non-consensual touching (nothing sexual). 
> 
> Today's prompt was: Sleep Deprivation.

Flint is scowling.

It seems he does it a lot these days. Even the smallest things serve to incense him, minor transgressions that he wouldn’t really have paid a mind to before, that now become failures that must instantly be punished. Right now, however, he isn’t really scowling at the any members of his crew, or anybody else for that matter. No, it’s the bookshelf in his cabin instead. It has never really bothered him before, but now he is unhappy with the order of the books. He has tried arranging them alphabetically, by subject, by shape and size, but nothing really looks _right_.

He is intelligent enough to know that the books aren’t really the problem, that it’s his own skin that seems to be all wrong for his body, his own shape that is contorting to fit around the hole inside his chest where Miranda once was. _Knowing_ , however, isn’t the same as _doing_ , isn’t the same as _understanding_ , and all he wants is to rip down the whole thing and build something else in its stead.

His hands are opening and closing when the door to his cabin opens. Flint knows immediately that it cannot be one of his crew; they know when the black moods strike him and are wise enough not to disturb him then. Sometimes they send Silver, but today not even he dares to approach. There is only one man who would saunter into his cabin right now, without a care in the world.

“Vane.” He almost spits out the word as he turns around.

“The very same.” A smile without any amusement curls up the edges of Vane’s lips. “Did you expect someone else?”

“Fuck off,” Flint grinds out. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I can see that.” The smile disappears from Vane’s face, replaced by something more serious that Flint chooses not to examine more closely. The past months since Miranda’s death have been a weird dance between them, of sniped insults, bloody fists, and rough fucks that are somehow more satisfying than the previous two combined.

“Then what are you doing here?” Flint puts as much barbed anger into his words as possible, intent on driving Vane away.

“When was the last time you slept?” Vane asks, instead of answering his question. “How many days?”

Flint scowls at him. “Can’t remember,” he rasps. That’s not entirely true; he _can_ remember, it’s just that the truth doesn’t really help in this situation. He manages to doze of here and there, caught in a fitful state of half-dreaming, half-awake, startling at the slightest sound. His dreams are drenched in black and red, the images of Miranda’s corpse mingling with those of Thomas hanging from a noose, and above all the black sea that threatens to swallow it all. What he truly cannot remember is the last time he has had a _solid_ , restful night of sleep.

Vane snorts and holds up the bottle of rum he has been carrying.

“Care for a drink?” he asks. Flint wants to deny him immediately – in the early days after Charleston, he has tried drinking himself senseless to escape the pain but found that the price he had to pay the next morning was too high. His crew needs a clearheaded captain. Vane raises his eyebrows, evidently able to tell Flint’s thoughts from his expression alone.

“We’re anchored in a bay with no one else around,” he points out. They’re waiting here to ambush a few trading vessels, but they aren’t supposed to come around for days yet. “And no vessels will show up tomorrow, not with how the winds have been blowing these past days.”

The offer is a tempting one, far more so than Flint cares to admit. Instead of replying, however, he only waves Vane closer to the table.

“I could also fuck you,” Vane offers. “Or punch you until you’re knocked out. If you prefer.”

Flint snorts.

“The rum will do for now. Although I hope you’ve brought more than one bottle.” Vane laughs at that and points to the desk.

“I’m not wasting all my money on getting you drunk. I bet you’ve got plenty of stuff in there yourself.” He isn’t exactly wrong, although Flint has tried to keep its use to a minimum. He sighs, gestures for Vane to sit down, taking the chair opposite him. Vane does as he’s told with an insolent grin, immediately propping up his feet on Flint’s desk. Flint stares at him and pulls a few charts out of his reach. Vane takes a deep swallow from the bottle and hands it over to Flint who sighs, wondering whether he should even bother to fetch two cups. He very quickly decides that this isn’t the moment for formalities such as cups, however, and takes a swig as well.

The rum burns as it goes down, numbs the frayed edges of his mind just a little. It’s not the cheapest sort, so terrible that you can barely stand the taste, but certainly not expensive stuff either. It’ll do for getting drunk with, Flint decides.

They drink wordlessly for a while, until Flint can feel the buzz of the alcohol through his blood. He wonders what Miranda would think of him now and frowns. Not a thought he wants to pursue, not now, not ever. He directs his thoughts back to Vane instead who stares at the almost empty bottle in his hands before noticing Flint’s gaze on him and looking up.

“Why are you here?” he asks. Not the most subtle of conversation openers, true, but then neither of them is currently known for their subtlety.

“You asked me that already,” Vane replies lazily, stretching his arms behind his head, revealing a sliver of skin between his shirt and trousers that Flint very determinedly does _not_ stare at. Vane smirks, making sure to stretch a little more.

“And you didn’t answer,” Flint shoots back, annoyed. “’Wanting to get drunk’ is not a good enough reason, Vane.”

“And why not?” Vane shrugs. “Perhaps I didn’t want to get drunk alone. Alcohol tasting better with worthy company and all that.”

“If you are looking for worthy company, you should have gone somewhere else,” Flint snorts. “Try Silver. Or Billy, since you seem to be so fond of him.”

“Ah, but none of them can give me quite the same satisfaction.” Vane grins. Flint rolls his eyes in response.

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

“Stubborn bastard,” Vane murmurs into the next swig of rum that empties the bottle. Flint leans down with a sigh and retrieves another bottle of rum.

“Perhaps I came looking for a good fuck. Perhaps I wanted to get drunk. Perhaps I just wanted to make sure that this captain I am allied with finally gets enough sleep. Who knows? Not sure myself anymore.” Flint sits back upright just in time to see Vane’s shrug. He puts the bottle of rum between them.

“As I said, not in the mood for the former today.” Flint bares his teeth as he uncorks the bottle, swallows down the burning liquid. “Not sure how I can help with the latter.”

“Why can’t you sleep?” Vane asks. Flint pauses with the bottle halfway up to his mouth again. Thus far, no one has dared to ask him directly, always skirting the issue somehow. Well, they are his crew. It would do no good to pry into the mental state of their captain too deeply. Flint is tempted to brush off the question, steer the conversation back into safer waters, but there is something about today – his rotten mood, the alcohol, the way Vane looks at him like he is genuinely interest answers, like he has suddenly started _caring_ – that makes him hesitate.

“There is no rest in nightmares,” he finally says. “Eyes that follow me. Voices that scream at me. Touch that haunts me. Failure that dogs my every step.” It is altogether too much and not enough at once. He doesn’t want the comfort of a ghost, but he still craves her image, _their images_ , because it is the only time that he gets to see them again.

Vane is quiet for a moment, considers what Flint has just said.

“Well. I am no expert on how to quiet ghosts. However, it occurs to me that drinking, fighting or fucking yourself senseless isn’t exactly the best way to go about it,” he finally brings out, in a much more pensive manner than Flint is used to.

“And yet, you are here to offer me all three,” Flint sneers. Vane just shrugs in response.

“The offer always stands. But perhaps, you should consider some alternatives.”

“Such as?”

“War.” Vane looks up and meets his gaze, eyes deadly serious. Flint laughs. His laughter is filled with no mirth, all made of sharp edges instead, shards that grind against each other in a hollow rhythm. Vane makes no effort to reciprocate the laughter, just watches him instead, deadly serious, until he has calmed down.

“War,” he repeats again. “You are already on its path – why not take it a step further?”

“Oh do tell,” Flint snorts. “I am all ears for your brilliant plan.” Vane’s eyes narrow in response to his tone and he sneers just a little.

“We are nipping at England’s heels. Running from their wrath for the events in Charleston. Taking a ship here, capturing a crew there, destroying supplies caches. Why not make them truly fear us? We’ve shown in Charleston that we possess power on par with theirs. No death will bring back your loved ones, true, but at least you can warm your hands on the fire you’ve set to their Empire.”

“And you? What is your stake in this?” Flint takes another swig from the bottle, a slow one this time, following the burn of the liquor down his throat.

“You are not seriously asking me that.” Vane barks out a laugh. “To no longer have England breathing down our necks? To be free to determine our own fates away from their shackles? I’d set the whole fucking world ablaze if I thought it would help achieve us that goal.”

“Ha.” Flint sneers. “Who’d have thought. The mighty Charles Vane, here to practically beg me for help.”

Vane growls in reply, his eyes turning hard as cold steel. He drinks and stand up from his seat, moving around the table until he can lean over him. Flint can smell the rum on his breath, see the little scars on his face, the sweat glistening on his impossibly sharp cheekbones. He licks his lips.

“Careful, Flint. Tell yourself that if it suits your ego, but I’d advise you not to trample too much over my own in the process. You won’t like what you find.”

“I doubt I’d like anything I found with you, _Charles_ ,” Flint snarls. It’s a blatant lie, and they both know it. His own body betrays him, the way his skin tingles when the man is so close to him, how the heat pools in his stomach even now just at the sight of his shoulders looming above. He wants to punch Vane bloody, wants to tear out his throat with his teeth, wants to touch him, wants to fuck him until neither of them has any breath to spare. He wants to break himself against the rocks of his arrogance like the sea against the shore, wants to tear himself open and choke on his own blood so that there’ll be at least some sort of warmth in his life again.

“Liar.” Vane presses his knee between Flint’s legs, pretending he doesn’t hear the low growl rising up Flint’s throat at the gesture. He leans in close, until Flint can feel the heat of his breath on his skin. “Liar,” he whispers again, right next to his ear.

Flint snarls and rams the flat of his palm against Vane’s shoulder, pushing him backwards. Vane offers no resistance, wiping his mouth as if he had tasted something sour.

“Don’t,” Flint spits at him. “Don’t.”

Vane returns to his seat, looks at the rum bottle, shrugs and takes another deep swig from it.

“We should begin by continuing our work from Charleston,” he says, as if this entire intermission hadn’t happened. “Frighten them. Intimidate them. Make it clear that we are not going to suffer any of us being hunted or hanged.”

Flint draws himself up in his chair, rubs his fingers through his beard to buy himself some time. He hates to admit it, but Vane has a point – what they’ve been doing until now is run from being hunted, attack a ship here or there. Mosquito stings on the giant bloated beast that is England’s machinery of power. Vane is right, they have to take the initiative, force their opponent’s hand. Starting with those who have redoubled their efforts to hang any suspected pirate they can get their hands on. He can feel his mind moving, stretching a little after the months caught in the numbing, freezing embrace of grief. Making plans, thinking about strategies, trying to weave a web across the gaping void inside his chest.

“We’ll wait until we’ve captured the merchant vessel,” Flint decides. “Then we’ll make plans.”

Vane nods and hands the bottle back to him. They drink in silence for a while longer until Flint can feel the room spinning slightly around him. The exhaustion so perpetually lodged in his bones is finally bleeding out, his eyes growing heavy and he thinks that this night, perhaps he might finally be able to find some sleep. Vane watches him for a moment before rising from his seat.

“I’ll excuse myself,” he says. “Get into bed while you still can.”

Flint wants to snap something back at him, but he is too tired to come up with anything suitable, so he leaves it at a withering glare, takes one last swig that empties the bottle instead. Vane snorts and walks towards the door. Before he can exit, however, he turns around, hand on the doorhandle.

“Take care not to drag everyone else to death with you in your downward spiral. Or you’ll lose what few friends you still have left.”

Then he is gone, and the sound of the door falling into its frame behind him is like that of a casket being closed.


End file.
